The rain held itself at the edge of the Mumbai sky like a secret. Outside the Vardaan Awards, the carpet glowed a theatrical red under a thousand camera flashes. Supercars glided up like sharks to a feeding frenzy. Publicists hissed instructions. Stylists tugged at hems. And the media, hungry and merciless, screamed the same names over and over.
"Sara! Over here, Sara! One smile!"
She stepped out of the car like dawn slipping over the water—ivory silk, minimalist diamonds, hair in soft waves. Sara Mehta knew how to give the world a performance even when she didn't speak. The crowd pressed forward as if they might touch the shimmer of her aura. She lifted her chin, eyes bright, the perfect ingenue who had learned how to look back at wolves without bleeding.
Across the boulevard, another convoy rolled in. Tinted glass. Security in earpieces. The atmosphere changed—curiosity charged into reverence laced with fear.
Aarav Vir Rathore.
Even the paparazzi's shouting thinned to a hush before it rose again, more electric, more careful. He exited the car in charcoal black, no tie, a single platinum watch that could pay three mortgages in Bandra. CEO of VR Group. Half the city owed their salaries—or their grudges—to him. His gaze cut through the light like a blade.
They were both used to being watched. They were not used to being watched together.
They moved along separate lanes of the same carpet—parallel strangers—timed to the second, a choreography they had practiced with military discipline. When the cameras were at full fever, when the presenters called another name to the stage, when the rain finally loosened and the umbrellas went up to break the sightlines—
—they passed each other.
No hesitation. No glance. Only a blur of silk and a shadow of cologne. Their hands, swinging naturally, brushed for precisely the length of three heartbeats.
The world didn't notice.
But their blood did.
Sara's phone vibrated in her clutch—a contact saved as Hidden 💬. No name. No photo.
A.V.R: Look straight. Don't stop walking. I'm watching you.
Her mouth didn't move but her pulse did, dancing under her skin. She kept smiling for the cameras as she typed with minimal movement.
Sara: You're late.
She never looked down again, the message sent without breaking her stride.
A.V.R: I had to reroute. Someone followed us last Tuesday.
Lightning stitched the clouds above the hotel façade. Sara's stilettos touched the marble of the entrance, and she paused for another photo—chin tilt, sidelong gaze, that soft laugh she had taught herself. It was a perfect picture of serenity, and absolutely none of it was real.
Sara: "Us"?
A.V.R: You. Then me. Same car, different nights. Not paps. Smarter.
Her smile didn't flinch. Inside, the chandeliers were galaxies. People were planets—orbiting, colliding, pretending not to burn.
A female anchor intercepted her. "Sara, rumor is you're up for Best Actress and the international project with LionGate Asia. Truth?"
"Rumors are free. Films aren't," Sara said lightly.
The crowd laughed. The anchor beamed, satisfied.
Behind the press line, a man in a black cap watched her without blinking.
Sara's handler, Ritu, appeared at her elbow. "Tight schedule. Photo wall. Stage left. Then green room."
"Got it," Sara said. But a flicker of unease slid over her ribs like cold water.
A.V.R: Don't go to the green room. Meet point Delta.
Delta was their word for the emergency exit stairwell hidden behind a mural on the mezzanine. Two floors up, there was a maintenance door with a faulty lock. The place smelled faintly of paint and rain. No cameras. No eyes.
Sara's heart hit a new rhythm. Don't overreact, she warned herself. But he rarely used Delta. Last time had been when her co-star's PR team tried to script a fake dating rumor and "accidentally" leaked their staged café photos. Aarav killed that rumor in twenty-four hours using only two emails that were probably illegal.
She finished the photo wall, posed with an award sponsor, gave a quote about "art and accountability," then pivoted toward the side corridor as if following a staff cue. The mezzanine was quieter. Her heels clicked over marble. The mural—a riot of blues—hid the narrow handle exactly where it always did.
She slid inside.
He was already there.
Aarav's presence always felt like a storm had just ended and the air hadn't remembered how to breathe. He leaned against the cool concrete of the stairwell wall, hands in pockets, gaze skimming her face with a hunger that was soft only in private.
"You look…" He searched for a word, the rarekind he let himself want. "…dangerous."
She smiled, real this time. "Says the man who texted 'Meet at Delta' like a code red."
He stepped close. The scent of rain on his suit. "You were tailed."
"By who?"
"If I knew, they wouldn't be tailing anyone."
His fingers found hers, interlacing like a claim. It always undid her—the way the most ruthless man in the room touched her like she was the only gentle thing left in the world. She rested her forehead against his chest for one stolen second. The thunder outside rolled again, distant.
"We should go," she whispered.
"I will," he said. "You'll go back. Smile. Collect what belongs to you."
"The award?"
He looked down, mouth curving. "Me."
Her laugh choked into a gasp as he kissed her—quick, unwise, devastating. When he pulled back, his gaze was business again. "Your new driver is mine. Route is set. If anything changes, take the service elevator to sub-level two. I'll be there in three."
"Aarav—"
"Look at me, Sara." His voice softened. "Breathe."
She did. The calm he carried, he gave to her. It was the only softness he allowed the world to steal.
She smoothed her gown, squared her shoulders, and reached for the door.
Her phone buzzed once more. A new notification. Not from Hidden 💬.
An AirDrop request.
"Accept file from: Unknown?"
Sara frowned. Who's close enough to— She glanced at the stairwell landing camera—dead, blinkless. Of course. The hair lifted at the nape of her neck.
She accepted.
A single image filled the screen: grainy, zoomed, but unmistakable.
Aarav and Sara in the stairwell, holding each other.
Timestamp: Less than twenty seconds ago.
Attached text: "How much is your secret worth?"
Sara looked up. The door handle was cold under her hand, the thunder closer now.
Somewhere on the other side, applause erupted for a name that wasn't hers.
The world still didn't know.
But someone did.
—End of Prologue.